


Sins and Salvation

by Quietraven



Category: RWBY
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Blood and Gore, Child Abuse, Crossdressing, Depression, Dissociation, Drama, F/F, Gender Dysphoria, Homophobia, Intersex, M/M, Murder, Nonbinary, Prostitution, Racism, Religion, Romance, School, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Slavery, Slice of Life, Slurs, Suicide, Transgender, Transphobia, Yandere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-13 06:28:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7966090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quietraven/pseuds/Quietraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate tale of team RWBY wherein there is no "smaller, more innocent soul." Told from the perspective of Ruby Rose.</p><p>Faced with demons both on the inside and the outside, Ruby, Weiss, Blake, and Yang are confronted by the fact that their suffering attracts the Grimm. They must break down the barriers and lies between them so that they can fight a common enemy, and try to heal the wounds that lie within each of them.</p><p>Contains disturbing content, with no explicit sexual content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sins and Salvation

**Author's Note:**

> A Rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

I fix my gaze on the fragmented moon as I dangle my legs off the balcony, swaying at the streets below. The cool wind brushes against my skin. I would have to leave this place. A hollowness starts to creep inside me, chilling the same blood that a moment ago ran hot.

My hand strays from my side, to run along Ecliptic Rose’s cold metal. Lifting the khakkhara to lay it on my lap, I tear my eyes from the moon and take in the familiar sight. Except. I scratch at the rust-colored specks contrasting with the shining silver. Powdery flakes brush against my fingertips as

_ i am taken in by the scene in front of me, the pool of rubies shining under the timid street lights. the man hoarding the treasure is splayed sloppily, sleeping. it’s easy to lose myself in the rubies’ red, and i float adrift inside a ruby _

Rose.” Startled, I swing around, my legs sliding over the balcony bannister as I grip my staff. My heart pulses vividly, shaking in my chest. A shiver touches my spine.

“Ms. Rose,” a breath escapes my lips, “as a result of your admirable work at Signal Academy, you have been invited to attend Beacon Academy.” The voice spills mechanically out of the answering machine. I let my feet fall heavily as I make my way back into the apartment, and slide the glass door behind me shut with a snap.

A ringing starts to resound in my ear as the message drones on. It’s always the same message; it has been for the past three years. They have yet to give up. Beacon Academy, the training school for huntsmen and huntresses. It’s famous throughout Vale; even beyond Vale’s borders, Beacon holds a place as one of the four Huntsman Academies. Without its huntsmen, the nation would be helpless before the Creatures of Grimm, the dark predators of the world who lust after the pain, fear, and sorrow of mankind.

A giggle twists its way out of my mouth. Amusing how despite their title, the huntsmen could do nothing but fight the Grimm back from the four nations’ borders. Sheep in wolves’ clothing.

I submit to the soreness in my legs, letting my body fall heavily on the bed.

I could become one. A huntress. A sworn protector of the nation of Vale. Protecting the people from the most deadly, malevolent creatures known to mankind. Regarded as a hero. I hold my quivering hands out in front of my face and can’t stifle a laugh. Mirth bubbles out of me, and the tension in my body starts to unravel. What an absurd thought.

But still.

I sit back up, and stare at the answering machine on the table across from me.

I can’t stay in this place now. I know that. I remember what happens to people who stay.

My eyes wander the familiar apartment, and my scattering of possessions. A worn backpack I used to hold books in combat school; a duffel bag for the weapons I had to carry around. A small assortment of clothes for daily life; and some I wear - I feel my fingernails dig into the skin on my palms - used to wear for club work. The marionnette - faded, frail, and veiled by a layer of dust - that used to sing songs to me at bedtime. A picture frame holding an old, crooked photo.

With Ecliptic Rose as a crutch, I lift myself back onto my feet. A quiet numbness sneaks through me as I prop open the canvas weapons bag and start to tuck away my clothes.

Faintly, I sense the touch of fabric on my hands. The familiar, rough caress of denim. I shiver. The soft touch of silk. My hands stop as I look down at myself.

I never changed out of my work clothes.

I strip myself mindlessly and methodically, my body coordinating itself in a practiced grace. The faint  _ smell of iron crawls into my nose  _ and I kick the fanciful garments across the floor, the silver jewellery scraping on the old wooden floorboards. I’ll need to dispose of those.

Turning back to the closet, I pick out an older, more worn outfit, and dress myself. The somewhat baggy jeans are faded and torn, pulled over my black boots. The hem of a black shirt hangs, untucked, over the waistband of the jeans. I stare at the mirror a moment. I need a bit more. 

I dig through the clothes already packed away, grabbing a pair of leather gloves and the heavy cut of red fabric I usually wear over my left leg. I wrap it around my nose and mouth, letting the excess hang off my back, and fasten the gloves onto my hands. I glance back at the mirror. I still look fairly clean and young for a homeless human. I try wrapping the cape over my head instead, as a makeshift hood. It could be hiding a faunus’ ears now. It’s as much as I can do to make it seem normal for me to be on the streets at night.

I try to keep my hands steady as I pack the rest of my clothes. I feel nothing more than my restlessly beating heart, see nothing more than the flashes of color from my clothing: black, white, silver, blue,  _ red, orange, yellow, and gray. a dark gray, and growing darker as the light flickers behind it. _

I throw the last of my outfits in, and zip the bag shut.

I grab my backpack, opening a compartment. My hand stops for only a moment before grabbing the marionnette and placing it inside. The picture goes next. Then a few supplies: I grab an old notebook, pencils, pens. Some cans of food and packs of instant ramen go into the next compartment, with bottles of water. A pack of matches goes into a smaller pouch inside. I pick up my switchblade; I tuck it into my pocket instead of the pack.

I throw open the door of my bathroom, sweeping my toiletries and makeup supplies into the backpack. A dull burning creeps up my arm as the bag grows heavier, my hasty heartbeat throbbing against the straps. Glancing at the bathroom mirror, I grab a wipe and rub off the makeup on my face, streaked from the  _ crying, _

_ crying and running, running and laughing, because i’ve seen this somewhere before. i’ve lived this somewhere before. and nothing has changed from back then but i’m still crying and that’s funny so i’m laughing, laughing so hard i cry, my face covered in droplets, _

_ droplets _ of cold water, splashed on my face. I grab a towel and dry myself off, before throwing the towel in my pack too.

I let out a quick sigh,

and look around the apartment I’d lived in for the past three years. A livable but squalid little place, now almost barren, stripped of anything meaningful. This was the sort of time when people would feel nostalgia.

A pattern of red and gold catching my eye, I walk over to where I left the work clothes from today and shove them into the now-bulging backpack.

And, lastly,

I turn to the phone. My body starts to lock up. I can never be a hero. My arm rises as surely as clockwork, in time with my heart, and reaches forward. I can never be a protector. I punch the button for messages. I can never be a savior.

But a huntress?

_ a toothy grin touches my mouth. _

I delete the message as a beep marks its end, and enter the callback number it had left. My foot taps while it rings. A machine prompts me to leave a message. “I would like to attend.” The words taste bitter  _ and burn, acrid, through my nose _ as I spit them out. I leave my name and give my cell phone as a callback number before I hang up.

Grabbing a notepad full of scribbled reminders, I scratch a quick letter to the landlord, telling him that I’ve left to study at Beacon. I sign a check to the man for this month’s rent.

I mark both with Monday’s date.

I leave the check on the table, and pin it down with my apartment key. I slip the letter under the door as I leave. Collection was a day away; Thursday marked the beginning of November. He should get the note then.

With a duffel bag in hand and a pack on my shoulders, I make my way down the staircase with muted taps of my boots, the door to my now former apartment rising up out of sight.

I pull my hood over my eyes as I reach the bottom of the stairwell, and venture out into the familiar buzz of street lights. This part of the city is numbingly dim and quiet at night, with few cars livening the streets. The stagnant air is chilling; it gropes at me, and, with no reprieve, I let it do so.

Here, towards the center of Vale, the buildings are forbidding. Metal shutters hang behind tightly shut windows; Plywood boards cover shop fronts where the glass has shattered; faded “for rent” signs hang from apartment complexes. Even the streets are marred - by trash,  _ by stains of red,  _ by fractures in the pavement.

Not a soul pays mind to the suffering; this neighborhood is too far from the coast and the borders to attract the Grimm.

My feet come to rest in an abandoned side street, and I toss my duffel bag on the ground by a trash can. The metal lid digs cooly into my fingers as I take it off and set it aside. It clangs roughly on the ground. Discarded cigarettes, burnt matches, broken bottles, and used condoms litter the inside of the bin. Predictably, the scraps of food among the trash are inedible or visibly rotten.

Rustling through my belongings, I throw a towel on top of the trash, followed by my clothes from earlier. I grab an aerosol can from my scattered bathroom supplies, and draw a match out of its box. I strike the match a couple times before it catches a  _ flame. reaching inside myself, i draw my aura out. red leaks out of my skin and clothes, clinging to my form tightly. _

A spray of oil rushes out of the can as I hold down the trigger, and it ignites when it touches the match. My hand twitches slightly as a tingle of warmth licks at my fingers, but my aura soaks up the harm. The trash, meanwhile, is not so protected.

A toxic stench begins to rise from the newborn flame, and I let the stream of aerosol cease.

The muscles in my legs burn as I seat myself on my duffel bag. I pull my hood tightly over my ears, and hold my backpack to my chest for warmth. The hesitant fire crackles, sending sparks spiraling through its pungent smoke. The sparks dance carelessly in front of the shattered, shining moon, each following the one that fades before.

_ The club is crowded; its vibrant lights and beating music offset the young night outside, visible through the small windows near the ceiling. To one side, the bar is abuzz with casual conversation. The bartenders’ hands are a blur as they mix drinks. Past a set of comfortable booths - where no small amount of groping has already begun despite the hour - the dance floor is a cascade of colors. A stage overlooks the dancers, complete with a mix table in the corner and three poles in plain view. _

_ A woman, adorned with silver jewellery and flowing red silk, emerges from the curtains behind the stage, holding a gleaming staff in front of her. Six rings, three to each side, hang from the ringed head of the staff, each shining with a distinct color. Her black hair, dyed red at the tips, washes over exposed shoulders as she turns her head to take in the crowd watching her.  _

_ The lights dim, beginning to pulse to the beat; the women on the dance floor cheer. _

_ With sinuous movements, the red woman saunters up to one of the poles and, without hesitation, starts to dance with the music. She casually flows, as if liquid, around the pole. Her staff is a part of her body, keeping her in the air. Upside down, her ruby lips and bared teeth almost look like a smile. _

_ The dance floor blooms to life; single and coupled women from the bar and booths make their way to the surging energy. The song and dance sweep them all off their feet, and they become a blurry mass of ecstasy. Their faces, voices, clothing are all indistinguishable. They echo the passion in the red woman’s dance, and it becomes a cacophonous roar. _

_ The songs blend into one another and time itself seems to stop for these faceless people. Earnest emotion radiates out of them, ignorant to the deepening night. _

_ At first, the percussive bursts blend into the music. _

_ Then screams break the dancers out of their trance. _

_ Gunfire alights the entrance. Bodies start to fall, collapsing heavily onto the floor. The blood that splatters the floor is dark, almost black, in the dim light. The tattooed lady at the mix table twists, and it looks like she too has begun to dance - but she collapses by the poles, a hollow sound leaking out of her lips. _

_ The remaining customers start to panic; the pole dancer throws herself to the ground, her staff clattering, shining with each point of light from the guns; the workers who were serving drinks a moment ago duck behind the bar. _

_ Amidst the clamor, a hole opens in the crowd towards the entrance to the club, revealing three gunmen. Even in dim light, their ammo glints mockingly. _

_ A few of the panicked mob turn back towards the men, seeking to bring them down. The rapidly firing bullets tear through them mercilessly, and their bodies fall, purposeless, to the floor. _

_ The group seems to split, some rushing the door behind the bar; the others clambering for the curtain flanking the poles. _

_ As a group of women bursts through the bar door, the stream chokes for a moment. The ones leading have realized that only a storeroom lies back in that direction. But there is no turning back against the mob behind. _

_ One gunman approaches them steadily, his bullets bringing the back of the crowd to the ground. The muzzle flashes illuminate a sadistic grin as he pulls out a grenade. _

_ The stage, meanwhile, is awash with blood, the faceless innocents making easy prey as they lift themselves off the floor. _

_ The red woman has not moved. Blood starts to splatter onto her body. _

_ A billowing explosion makes the clawing for the stage hesitate for a moment. _

_ The bar is burning; bodies catch alight. The storeroom, filled with alcohol, emits the sounds of breaking glass and breaking voices. A haze of smoke crawls through the room. _

_ A second explosion flings wood shrapnel over the stage, and the second group of women is torn apart at the center, ragdolls spinning out to pin down the survivors. _

_ The three men are plainly seen now, the crackling fire shining off of their teeth, skin, hair, eyes. _

_ The red woman, marked in blood and bits of shrapnel, moves. Her hand reaches out and takes her staff in a tight grip. She brings her knees towards her chest, her body curled with her eyes widened at the stage below. _

_ And, with sharp movements unbefitting a dancer, she stands _

_ Amidst the growing haze of smoke, her dark brown eyes shine almost crimson in the firelight. _

_ The slender, grinning man who pursued the women to the bar notices her first. As he raises his voice and his gun to point at the dancer, red erupts from her skin, cloaking her from the fire that has now begun to eat away at the stage. _

_ Bullets fly towards her, pelting her cloak. They make ripples as they crash and fall to the ground. _

_ Her pearl teeth glimmer as the fire overtakes her. _

_ She dances towards the grinning man, the fire bending around her aural cloak as her footsteps fall on mutilated corpses. _

_ When she surpasses the fire, her feet are soaked in blood. But she doesn’t lose her balance. The grinning man is no longer grinning, and his fingers scrabble clumsily for a new clip of bullets. _

_ Without slowing for a moment, the red woman reaches him, her staff licking out to crash into his gut. A spade at its tip cuts through his pinstripe suit and tears through his flesh. His eyes widen, mouth agape, and his hand moves to touch the warm fluid that leaks from the wound. _

_ A subtle flash in the air draws his attention back, and he screams as he makes out the faint shape of a wire hanging from the dancer’s staff. With a fluid movement, she swings the staff away. _

_ The grinning man stops screaming as blood gushes out in a circle around his body. As the red woman dances away, a snap resonates from the man, matching the crackling of the fire. He falls, in two pieces, to the ground, the brilliant white of organs and bone contrasting with the dark pool of blood on the floor. _

_ The other two men look on, through the growing cloud of smoke, speechless. Their guns have stopped firing, but neither reaches for a new clip. One, tall and muscular, turns his back and sprints for the exit. The other, shorter man, seems not to notice. _

_ The dancer makes her steady path through body and blood on the floor, easing towards the short man. Fumbling, the short man pulls the pin out of a grenade, and throws it toward the advancing figure. _

_ The red woman’s silver staff licks out again, and the grenade bounces off the floor. She brings her staff around a second time, and it skitters back towards the short man as she dances past the short man, away towards the entrance of the club. _

_ A word catches in the short man’s throat before he is enveloped in the light and piercing noise of an explosion. _

_ The front door of the club bursts open, and the tall man’s feet pound against the pavement outside. Behind him, the red woman emerges, gliding through the open door. She reaches him effortlessly, and her staff licks out for a third time. _

_ But the tall man has an aura like hers, and it shines white as it wraps him soundly. When her staff flicks back, the wire around him snaps uselessly, and dissolves into the cold night’s air. _

_ The tall man draws his weapon, forgotten until now, loaded with a fresh clip. A bullet slams into the space between the red woman’s eyes. It falls broken to the ground, but for a moment the dancer seemed to have lost her balance. _

_ Her staff rams angrily into the tall man’s body, sending white ripples across his frame, then again into his wrist. _

_ His gun clatters to the street. _

_ He leaps away, and the wind seems to catch him in the air as he flees into the night sky. His body becomes a silhouette in front of the fragmented moon, but a perverse smile still glistens on his face. Bitter words spill out of his mouth, hanging greedily over the street. _

_ The red woman has stopped dancing. _

_ She lifts her staff, and one of the rings shines black. The black shimmer spreads to a wire that has wrapped around the staff’s head. It runs along the wire, into the air, and makes its way towards the tall man. _

_ The tall man’s smile falters as the black cord reaches his wrist. _

_ The cord snaps to the ground, and the man is pulled from his invisible cloud. As he hurtles toward the street below, it almost looks as if he’s reaching for it, his arm stretched out and his hand splayed. _

_ As his arm crashes into the pavement, his white aura flickers and pops. His body crumples and red splatters around it, beginning to pool. It shines eagerly under the street lights. _

_ The tall body, prostrate in the middle of the street, is torn in places, and sharp white bone sticks out of red holes. _

_ The red woman raises her arm, and it reaches out towards the broken puppet in front of her. _

_ Headlights shine in the distance, and, broken from her reverie, she runs. _

_ In the passing streetlights, tears glisten, tracing down her cheek to the toothy, twisted smile below. A ringing burns in her ears, growing louder until it blots out the world and _

I gasp for air. My eyes refocus on the trash bin, whose fire has long since burnt out, and I feel a buzzing against my leg. I reach for the ringing phone, and read the caller on the screen.

It’s from Beacon Academy.

I accept the call.


End file.
